


to change and to change

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bodyswap, Crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-29
Updated: 2009-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal





	to change and to change

  
_to change and to change for the better are two different things_  
-German proverb

  
* * *

 

It was Joe who first stared at Patrick trapped in Andy's body and saying slowly, "Hey. Did you, like, get new ink?"

"No," Patrick said flatly, crossing his arms over a bare chest, feeling overexposed. He felt so cold, but Andy had hidden all his shirts and Patrick didn't want to go digging around for one. "I didn't."

"Hmm." Joe put out the cigarette in his left hand, staring at Patrick the whole time, his red-rimmed eyes very wide and fixed. Patrick stared back, trying to project that particular flat expression perfected by Hurley. Joe raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to say anything?"

Patrick tried not to look too puzzled. "Say what?"

"I've been through two of these," Joe said with a curious gentleness, motioning with his newly lit cigarette. "And I've been blowing smoke at you since the first one, Hurley, and _you haven't said a thing._ "

"Uhh," Patrick said and then shrugged. At that moment, Andy in Patrick's body burst into the bus lounge _hatless_ ; hair wild and thin and he had no form of hat covering on his head. At all.

"Oh fuck, put on a hat!" Patrick said in a very low-level shriek.

Andy's glare could have melted icebergs, even as he clapped a hand over his mouth and nose. Well, he slapped _Patrick's_ hand over Patrick's mouth and nose, his eyes practically glittering from behind the glasses; he was probably still livid at Patrick for the whole almost-kissing-Matt thing. "I'm going to give you four seconds to get out of this smoke," he said slowly, voice muffled behind the tight wall of his hand. "Or very bad things are going to happen to you, Patrick. Involving my foot and your ass."

"Huh. He said _Patrick_. Oh, I get it," Joe said in that same mild voice as Andy dragged a cursing Patrick out of the bus. For a long moment, he considered telling Pete, or Mixon. Then he stared at the cigarette in his hand, smoke curling up out of the end, and grinned a little evilly at it.

 

* * *

 

It was like a continuation of a dream, waking up in someone else's body. First of all, Patrick was lying down on the wrong side of the bed, the side nearest the wall; when he frowned blearily and tried to move, someone was spooned behind him, arm slung over his waist companionably; his waist... which felt far narrower than usual.

It must be the stress of touring and working on tracks all at the same time.

Wait. He had on far less clothes he had ever _not_ worn in his life, even to bed.

"Hey," Patrick said in a furred voice and sat up quickly. The arm that had been flung around him slid down to rest on his hip, and the person who had been the big spoon to his little one snuggled up closer behind him, muttering. "Oh god," Patrick whispered as he gazed down at his arms, strange with their colourful riot of ink. " _Fuck_."

"Go back to sleep," the Big Spoon mumbled and Patrick turned his head so slowly that he could almost hear the tendons in his neck creak, looking down in Mixon's face. Matt cracked open one brown eye and gave him a lazy smile, tightening his arm a little around Patrick's waist... which technically didn't belong to Patrick, but its usual owner had gone AWOL at some hour unknown and for some reason, Patrick's consciousness had decided to crawl in like a psychic hermit-crab.

It must have happened last night, Patrick reasoned, trying to ignore that small part of himself that was currently huddled in one dark mental corner, shrieking in terror. Last night, when he and Andy had done one of their usual drummer mind-melds onstage; he had been staring right at Andy, who had been staring right back and nodding, just like usual, all systems hunky-dory, Captain; out of the corner of his eye, he could see Matt flitting about backstage, probably randomly charming a small crowd for himself. Matt was kind of tall in the way redwoods were tall; laid-back enough to give Joe a run for his money; and very smart. And hot. Patrick was man enough to admit it, really. Hot and funny and apparently the Property of Hurley, from the way they acted on the bus together; not that he watched them closely. Besides, it was hard not to see them grinning constantly at each other, anyway.

In any case, when Matt had come out, flinging Andy a new towel before belting out the screaming part of Carpal Tunnel, he had been just idly doing the Drummer Eye with Hurley and thinking, _huh, wonder what it's like to be you, man, have somebody all for you like that_ and oh god, did he not watch Freaky Friday? He had. Pete had nagged him until he had been forced to endure Pete's head in his lap as they watched it and there were very important rules to these things. Pete had said so.

He tried to sneak off the bed, to storm off to his room on the bus and hopefully find Andy. Matt grabbed him by the forearm and hauled him back; Patrick flailed and rolled, ending up pressed chest to chest with a smirking Matt.

"You said you'd sleep late, because you guys didn't have anything early today," Matt said with a massive grin, and flung one long leg over Patrick's hip as he went up on one elbow, supporting his head with one hand. "You're such a fucking workaholic, Hurley."

Patrick blinked at him, completely speechless. Right about now, he should be babbling out a long and confusing explanation as to who he really was and try struggling out of Matt's clutches again; but Matt was smiling at him softly, completely at odds with his normal mischievous grin. He snagged a lock of hair, long and russet-brown and completely not Patrick's, twirling it around one finger.

He expected Matt to say, "What's up? What's wrong with you?" at Patrick's wide-eyed expression, which probably looked as wrong as hell on Andy's face, but Matt just kept twirling his finger in that lock of hair with that half-smile, and wow, if this was what Hurley was getting up to every morning, this content and comfortable feeling, then no wonder he was so mellow and relaxed for this tour.

"Um," he said and that sleepy expression on Matt's face cleared; he raised his eyebrows questioningly and Patrick blinked up at him, parting his lips to speak. Matt's eyes flickered to his mouth and up again, still with that open, content smile and honestly, it only seemed natural for Patrick to lean a little forward, because obviously Mixon was expecting a good morning kiss and it kinda wouldn't do to leave the dude hanging. That would be _such_ bad manners, especially if it was something he was used to. So he leaned and Mixon's eyes widened a bit, but he snuggled closer as well; then something like a truck or maybe the seven o'clock Amtrack blasted the door open and Patrick nearly jumped out of his skin.

Patrick's body, obviously under Andy's control, stood in the threshold of the door, hands gripping the frame. His gaze landed on Patrick and Matt cuddled in bed; Patrick feared his fingers would leave holes, they were curled in so tightly.

Hey. He _needed_ those fingers.

"Patrick?" Matt sat up and blinked at Andy's expression, which was coming out as kind of manslaughterish on Patrick's face. "What, was that your early morning routine of kicking doors in? Awesome, man."

"Ha, funny," Andy said flatly, and pointed a slightly unsteady finger at Patrick. "You. Kitchen. Now."

"I gotta," Patrick began, pushing Matt's leg from off his hip, "he wants to talk about things, so I gotta. Go."

"Aww." Matt snagged him around the waist again and pulled him close again, laughing. "Get your own, Stump! This one's mine!"

"Let go." Andy's voice was a lake in winter. "We have to talk about very important things."

"Be careful, I think he might eat you," Matt muttered as Andy whirled and stomped off to the lounge of the bus; his expression became curious as Patrick searched helplessly for a shirt. "What are you looking for, man?"

"A shirt."

"A... shirt?" Matt looked as if Patrick was asking him for a long-range missile. "A shirt."

"Never mind." Patrick grabbed a neatly folded black shirt from atop a duffle-bag and pulled it over his head. He also rummaged inside the bag and pulled out Andy's jeans, which he eyed in amazement; he knew Andy was small, but looking at those jeans from this angle, they appeared to be made to fit a young girl of twelve. He also located a black hoodie and yanked everything on, toeing on Andy's old Vans. He turned; Matt was sitting up and staring at him.

"Are you cold?" Mixon asked solicitously, but there was a slight frown forming between his eyebrows. "That's a lot of clothes for this time of day. For you, I mean."

"Oh, yeah, _very_ cold," Patrick said with a nonsensical movement of his hands. Matt stared at him, dark eyebrows raised; then he shrugged.

"Your glasses," Matt finally said and snagged a sturdy case from the tiny night-table. He threw it before Patrick could voice his inability to catch anything smaller than a guitar (and even _then_ , damnit), but Andy's body apparently had this covered, thanks, because the case was safely in his hand in a moment. "Come back soon," Matt finished with a grin and flopped back to snuggle Andy's pillow.

When Patrick pulled on the glasses and made his way to the kitchen, Andy was sitting at the cluttered eating-table, eating cereal in a methodical, steadfast manner. He didn't even raise his head as Patrick slid into the seat across from him, but he did move his gaze from where it had been concentrated on his bowl, eyes hard as they landed on Patrick.

"Hey, we seem to have a problem," Patrick said as airily as he could. For a moment, Andy's gaze seemed to become harder, and then he shook his head, sighing.

"Yeah, apparently," was all he said and ate some more. He motioned to an empty bowl near to the cereal-box and watched closely as Patrick poured himself some of the cereal. "Don't frown at it," Andy remonstrated at Patrick's wrinkled nose. "It's good for you. For me. Generally, it's good, eat it."

"Tastes like shit," Patrick informed him through a mouthful.

"We'll give it a day," Andy said in the tones of a general ordering around his troops. Patrick thought he was talking about the cereal until he realised Andy was referring to their situation. "Maybe two. Whatever happened, it should probably wear off by then."

"Really?" Patrick was impressed at his matter-of-fact tone, and he wondered how Andy felt to wake up in a pudgy singer's body, with no tattoos at all. "How do you know that?"

"I actually don't," Andy admitted, and swirled the remainder of his cereal around with his spoon. "But you know what they say about hope."

"Oh yeah, what do they say... that it's the worst of evils?"

"That it _springs eternal_ ," Andy corrected him sternly, but there was a small smile playing around his lips, and maybe they were cool.

"About Mixon," Patrick hedged and just like that, they probably weren't so cool again. At least, he couldn't really tell, because a range of emotions flitted across Andy's borrowed face before it became a cool mask, probably very similar to the one Patrick wore when he didn't have a clue what was going on around him and retreated into his mind to do something musical with a half-remembered lyric.

"What about him," Andy said in a bored voice, getting up to put his plate in the small sink.

"Are you guys. You know." Patrick watched his own back carefully, which was tense as Andy washed the bowl and spoon with sharp movements. It kind of looked funny, the way he had Patrick's body moving; at the very least, it looked funny to Patrick.

"It's complicated," Andy finally offered as he set the clean plates down and Patrick boggled at him.

"Dude, it's either a yes or a no. _Complicated_ means one or both of you don't know what the hell is going on." Patrick knew _complicated_ very well. After all, he was Pete Wentz's best friend and onstage molesting-target. After a few hundred sessions of those without anything else to back it up, apart from Pete professing his deep-abiding love for Patrick to anyone who would read it on the internet, Patrick had put it down to Pete just being Pete, and leaving it there.

Andy turned his head, looking back at Patrick out of the corner of his eye. "It's complicated," he repeated slowly, like he was talking to a wayward child, and Patrick rolled his eyes.

"What's complicated?" Matt stood at the entry to the lounge, his basketball shorts riding low on his hips as he stumbled towards them. He pushed Patrick in that rough, friendly manner that he used on everyone, forcing Patrick to move the guitar that took up most of the long bench-like seat to the ground, so that Matt could sit beside him. Matt sat close, his leg pressed warmly against Patrick's as he grabbed at the cereal-box and made a face.

"That's good for you, man," Andy said, a well-known refrain. Matt turned and gave Patrick a wry look.

"Dude, don't make Stump tell me all your stupid shit. I'm gonna go out, like right now, and find something super-greasy and totally unhealthy. And you'll cry over my bloated body." He elbowed Patrick and grinned warmly and it looked a lot like Pete's grin, big and completely self-satisfied.

"No, I won't," Patrick said with a grin, because he'd heard this particular little song-and-dance before; the two of them tended to bicker genially before every meal. "I wouldn't give a shit if all your arteries clogged up."

"You would _cry_." Matt elbowed him in the side again and kept smiling, swaying close enough for Patrick to see the strange spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose. "Tears of lamentation and sadness, Hurley."

"I would dance a jig over your lifeless body," Patrick deadpanned, kind of enjoying himself. There was something deeply cheerful about Mixon that just seemed to tug anyone close.

"You're a cruel little man," Matt grinned down at him and looked up at Andy, who was making Patrick's skin all splotchy. "Hey. What's up?"

"I'm going to... do something musical," Andy said in a strangled voice. "Something musical in my room."

"Is that what they call beating off now?" Matt wondered as Andy stalked away from them, his shoulders set in a taut line. "Stump is _totally_ into the music, isn't he?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Patrick said earnestly, and tried to get Matt to eat some cereal.

 

* * *

 

"Hey."

Patrick turned his head and frowned at Pete, who seemed to be vibrating even as he stood in one spot. Dirty wasn't nearby; that it itself was simultaneously a relief and an oddity. "Hey."

Pete looked nervous and unsure, tucking his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and staring off into the distance at something. Patrick frowned again, bracing himself for whatever strange breakdown was going to occur right before the sound-check. Patrick had to admit that he'd been super busy and didn't have time to focus on Pete; but Pete looked fine. He didn't need Patrick up in his face all the time.

"So, _hey_ ," Patrick tried again.

"So, uh. You've noticed Patrick's practically in Matt's skin, right?" Pete said with a surprisingly dark tone and Patrick stared at him for a very long time. "He is," Pete continued and jerked his chin in the direction of the wings, where Matt was looking down at Andy and grinning, leaning against one of the amps. Andy was staring up at him in his intense way, only on Patrick's face it looked a little creepy; every now and again, he smiled briefly at Matt's shenanigans.

"Yeah," Pete continued, eyes fixed on them. "Interesting. And hey, he's even Patrick's type."

Patrick choked on something suspicious, like his own breath. "What? I. _Patrick_ doesn't have a type in dudes."

Pete looked at him and then laughed, nasally and loud. "Right. He _thinks_ he doesn't, because he's still kinda figuring everything out, feeling out the scene, you know? But he does. Mixon's it. Loud and funny. And tall."

Part of Patrick was protesting heartily; the other part mused, _huh, fucker knows me too well_.

"Thing is," Pete continued, almost in a dream-like tone,"he's probably over there thinking that he _doesn't_ have a type because people who _are_ his type wouldn't really go for him, you know? Blinded by himself, that's what it is. He's so fucking stupid sometimes," Pete said with a quiet fondness; there was something still haunting at the curve of his small smile, though.

"Anyway!" Pete's massive grin was back on his face, any trace of introspection gone completely. "Yo, Hurley, better get a move on. Patrick's over there stealing your _man_!"

Most of the crew stopped what they were doing, looking towards Pete as his voice bounced around the stage. Matt was laughing, but Andy folded pale, inkless arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes.

"Now I ain't sayin' he's a gold diggah!" Pete screamed and raced across towards them, leaping at Matt.

"Oh, fuck you, Wentz." Matt grappled with him and flung him off, still laughing; Pete loped off, cackling, but Andy was staring at Patrick with both eyebrows raised nearly to the brim of the hat he had on Patrick's head.

Patrick folded his arms and shrugged, but Andy actually gave him a suspicious squint, before turning away again.

 

* * *

 

Joe thought this was the most fun he'd had in _years_.

"Dude," he said from the sofa as Andy strolled around in the smaller dressing-room later in the evening, looking a little lost. "Don't you have to warm up the old pipes? A little yodeling?"

"What? Oh. Hmm."

"Usually you do like show-tunes. Or Neyo," Joe suggested helpfully, his voice wavering a little in repressed laughter. He bit his lip as Andy wrenched Patrick's features into a frown. "Or even some Usher."

"Yeah, I know. How about we try something different tonight." Andy ruminated, looking completely uncertain about the whole procedure and Joe had to bite the inside of his cheek to force the screams of laughter down. Andy was going to do something totally fucked-up. He could be a vindictive little bastard sometimes.

Andy cleared his throat and launched into a screaming version of some Britney Spears song. Joe fell off the sofa in helpless laughter even as Patrick raced inside the dressing-room and tackled Andy, running leap and all.

"Don’t do that!" Patrick spat, his fingers wrapped around Andy's neck as they struggled on the floor.

"That's your own neck," Joe reminded Patrick as he tried to choke Andy, who was fighting back grimly, but Patrick was putting Andy's leaner, meaner frame to good use. They both ignored him. "You might want to use it later, I dunno."

"I don't know what your deal is," Patrick hissed. "But you _do not_ want to fuck with my voice."

"It's the moneymaker," Joe agreed from a safe perch on the dressing-room counter.

"What's going on?" One of the bodyguards was at the open doorway, staring down at them in shock. This particular bodyguard had completely missed the Patrick-Asshole Years. He had also never seen an overly violent Andy, so it was probably weird to him on both counts.

"Someone is schooling someone, but I've lost track!" Joe called cheerily and the poor bodyguard now looked close to tears in confusion.

"Hurley?" Matt called from behind the bodyguard's double-wide frame. "What are you doing? Wait, are you trying to kill Patrick? Don't kill Patrick, man, you want Pete to hurt you? Come on, let's go get some ice-cream."

Joe watched with narrowed eyes as Patrick got to his feet, very slowly and looked down at Andy's glowering face. Then he turned and walked out, the bodyguard stepping hurriedly out of his way. Then Patrick threw a long, unreadable glance over his shoulder and reached out, touching Matt's hand. Matt immediately grasped onto his fingers and held tight, chattering a mile a minute even as Patrick gave Andy a triumphant raise of his eyebrows as they disappeared around a corner.

Andy stood up slowly and then walked towards where Patrick had placed his portable steamer. He picked up the little machine, hefting a couple of times as if he was contemplating its weight and then flung it against the nearest wall.

"Rock-stars, man," Joe explained to the poor bewildered bodyguard as Andy blasted past him. "Crazy as _shit_."

 

* * *

 

Andy turned and kissed Pete right on the mouth when he came close during the performance. Yeah, like _certain_ people didn't know he was one fucking vindictive bastard.

The crowd screamed; Joe screamed too, cause this shit was _super_ -crazy and Patrick, who was seated behind Andy's kit (a dream of his for as long as he had been in the band) lost the rhythm completely.

Pete went back to his mike and launched into an unfocused ramble relating to Prop 8. Andy turned his head, and smirked at Patrick. He had thought it would have been hard for him to stand up front and sing, but he just let Patrick's body go through the motions, and it was pretty easy so far.

Patrick glared back at him and spun a drumstick in one hand; with the other drumstick, he sliced across his own throat.

Andy mouthed _bring it_ , and turned back to sing.

 

* * *

 

"Are you guys having a threesome?" Pete muttered sleepily much later and Andy turned to stare at him. Pete actually looked abashed, a very strange look on his face indeed.

"What?"

They were curled up in the lounge Pete's bus. Actually, Andy was curled up in one end of the sofa, watching Lost and Pete was curled against him.

Pete played with a loose thread in the shirt Andy was wearing. "You know. You and Andy. And Matt."

"Fuck no," Andy said shortly and returned his attention to the television, frowning so deeply he could almost feel his eyebrows meet.

"Oh. Because... you know, you've been super-busy recently. With a whole bunch of stuff." He was silent for a few moments. "I miss you."

Andy turned and blinked at him in shock. "Dude, I've been like right here all this time."

Pete snuggled even closer and heaved a sigh; it was an unexpectedly desolate sound. "I know."

Andy sat rigidly for a few beats. Then he uncurled his legs and put an arm around Pete, pulling him close. Pete wasted no time, he wound his arms around Andy's borrowed body and tucked himself in so close that Andy felt that he would need a crowbar to pry him off later.

"I love you, man," Andy told him truthfully. "Andy loves you, too," he added, just for the record. "And Joe. And all the techs and so on. Everybody."

"Not everybody," Pete chuckled against his neck. "But I'll be okay with you guys." He lifted his head and pressed a quick kiss to Andy's cheek before curling back in. Joe wandered out of the narrow hallway towards the fridge, gave them a speculative glance, and went back to his room. Hemmy whined up at Pete, licked Andy's toes and dashed off in Joe's wake.

"I love you too." Pete was silent for a long time. "As long as you're not having threesomes. That would be so not cool if I didn't get to watch, man."

Andy chuckled at this but did not reply.

He did, however, think deeply on the last thing Pete said before he fell into a fitful sleep (which would probably last less than an hour): "Hurley has a good thing going. I hope he knows."

 

* * *

 

For his part, Patrick was having a hard time fending off Matt. He had grabbed onto his laptop as soon as they started rolling. He had opened it, and was just about to start some more work at the table when Matt popped up behind him and nearly scared him half to death.

"How'd you get into Patrick's laptop?" he asked and Patrick squeaked like a tiny mouse. "Aahah. You squeaked!"

"Don't go sneaking up on people like that!" Patrick tapped nervously on the keyboard. "It wasn't locked when I opened it. So, uh, yeah. That's how I got in?"

"Ok, you're starting to look like Mad Scientist Stump, all hunched over," Matt laughed and grabbed onto his hands, hauling him away. "You're not gonna pull that shit with me."

"But--" Patrick found himself being dumped unceremoniously in the sofa that had the best view of the television. "But, okay, Patrick asked me to look at--"

"No way. You think you're just going to ignore me the way Patrick ignores Pete? I have my limits, man! I don't even know how Pete stands it."

Patrick gaped as Matt popped in a Lost DVD, and sat down heavily beside him.

"I... He doesn't ignore Pete," he said very carefully as Matt tried to find the last scene he had been watching. "I'm sure he doesn't."

"Dude. Y'all work hard, no lie. But Patrick? Works himself to pieces. And Pete ...he gets himself in all kinds of trouble, like he's trying to get Patrick to just _look the fuck over here_." He glanced at Patrick's bemused expression and grinned.

"Pete is the one who gives Patrick all this fucking work to do," Patrick explained tightly.

"Yeah, sure. Because he trusts Patrick, you know? With all of who he is. Even the needy part that just wants to chillax with his beffie, you know? Like what we have. Kinda." Matt's grin was even wider and a little sultry underneath. "Yes, you can say it, Hurley. I am a wise, wise man."

"Yes," Patrick agreed absently as Matt returned to his show. "A wise, wise man, indeed."

 

* * *

 

When the buses stopped for gas and Dirty's furtive beer stock, Andy and Patrick dismounted, walking towards each other slowly.

"Take care of him," Andy said as soon as they met in between the large, rumbling vehicles. "I've known him longer than you. He breaks easy."

"Same for you," Patrick told him. "You have a good thing. Don't fuck it up."

Andy wanted to laugh at Patrick's almost verbatim echo of Pete, but managed to suppress it. He stepped around Patrick to head towards Matt, and it felt as if he was being spun around, for he kind of reeled where he stood and nearly fell, suddenly dizzy at the strange sensations He flailed and reached out to Patrick for support... and saw his own decorated hand closing over Patrick's upper arm.

"Ugh," Patrick groaned. "Yeah. Apparently, sleeping through that really has a purpose."

Andy squeezed his arm and then let his arm fall away, hurrying in the direction Patrick had come from.

"Oh, and you owe me a fucking steamer! Asshole!" Patrick yelled.

 

* * *

 

About the time Patrick was located in one bus, leaning his head on Pete's shoulder and listening to him mutter in a drowsy, contented voice, Andy was in the other, clambering into Matt's lap; he kissed Matt, a quick, hopeful press of lips and told him, "You're my good thing. Simple as that."

Matt said, "Oh, okay," and kissed him back.

Joe, sprawled in his bed, sleepily lectured Hemmy, "Please don't be switching with me, man. Okay? Just don't."

Hemmy huffed in agreement; Joe gave him a languorous thumbs-up, and all was pretty fucking well.

_fin_


End file.
